


the effects of holy water on angels

by bitterglitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake Character Death, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, aziraphale doesn't get sent to heaven au, but its really fluffy at the end, i did a hit on our angel :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterglitter/pseuds/bitterglitter
Summary: As all Angels should, Aziraphale loves all of God’s creations, and She had many ones that are easy to love. So, as an immortal, it is impossible to go through existence without feeling the loss of them. The emptiness. There have been a handful of people, animals, even places, that have been lost to time that he has mourned.But this?This is a grief that Aziraphale is sure that not even Hell could imagine. A grief that Aziraphale would have believed only came with the feeling of losing one’s Angelic wings in a fall. A grief that he would never experience.





	the effects of holy water on angels

Humans somehow are both quite gullible yet very hard to convince, which is a frustrating duality that brings Aziraphale to his current predicament.

In another, very similar but slightly different universe, Lance Corporal Shadwell believes he exorcises the not-known-to-be-an-Angel Aziraphale by backing him up into a portal to heaven. After this, a series of events would follow that would lead to a burnt down bookshop and a Demon drinking heavily as he waits for the end of the world.

But this universe is just slightly different enough that those events do not happen.

Aziraphale, instead of letting himself be pushed back into the circle by Shadwell, manages (with a slight miracle) to duck under his arm as Shadwell grabs the supplies and instead leads the Corporal in the opposite direction.

So, when Shadwell points his finger at Aziraphale, instead of bursting into bright blue flames as he ascends to Heaven, silence fills the air as nothing happens. The two men are left staring at each other, not quite sure where to go from this due to very different reasons. Once and then twice more Shadwell points his finger at Aziraphale as if it will make some sort of difference. Aziraphale blinks.

Well, at least no one stepped into the circle.

“I- I don’t _understand_.” Shadwell’s face screws up in confusion and he brings his finger close to his face, almost crossing his eyes in the process. “Yer a demon, this should work! Bell, book, candle!”

Aziraphale glances at the clock perched on his wall. “Well, I, hm. I do wish I had time to explain this to you, but unfortunately, the Apocalypse waits for no Angel.” And with this Aziraphale snaps his fingers, miracling Lance Corporal Shadwell asleep and into his bed at home. A rather big miracle, much more than he usually likes to do, but wholly necessary at the moment.

After a brief search for Agnes Nutter’s book, which Shadwell had tossed to the side after using for his attempted exorcism, Aziraphale starts to rush out the door. When he suddenly remembers, yes, he has wings and, yes, they probably would be faster than going through London traffic.

Faster is better when considering in a few hours it would be the End of the World, the only problem is that it doesn’t give Aziraphale much time to consider what to say to Crowley. And there is Much to Say. Lots had happened in just the past day between them, much more than he ever thought could happen. Now he isn’t exactly sure where they stand, where anything stands at all, or what to say to make any of it better. He has some things he knows he wants to say, but not all of it could be said in the short time they have. Perhaps if they drove to Tadfield at Crowley’s breakneck speeds they would have a chance.

So much to say.

_I’m sorry. It isn’t over between us. We are on our side. I am on our side._

_I choose you._

With thoughts of Tadfield and Agnes Nutter and Alpha Centauri scrambling through his mind, Aziraphale lands at Crowley’s front door. Not that he couldn’t land inside the flat, but things have been testy between the two of them this past week for obvious reasons and Aziraphale doesn’t really want to push it.

He reaches up to knock, which is just a formality and more a warning to Crowley that someone is here because he fully intends to just walk in anyway, when he pauses. The front door is already cracked open. As if someone had forgotten to fully close it behind them. Or hadn’t bothered to.

Alarm bells go off in Aziraphale’s head. In six thousand years of knowing Crowley, he has never ever done something like this. Even when he’s completely plastered, barely hanging onto Aziraphale as he attempts to drag them to Crowley’s flat (wherever it may be at the time) Crowley always remembers to close and miracle the door locked behind him.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale presses the tips of his fingers against the door and watches it sway open. Beyond the soft creak of the hinge, the flat is otherwise completely silent. If Aziraphale’s body wasn’t merely modeled after humanity and instead was completely human he would now break out into goosebumps. Perhaps a shiver would run up his spine. Natural instincts would alert him to leave the scene, a threatening aura hanging heavy over the flat like a thick fog. But he is not human, and while some part of him is still aware that nothing good resides beyond the threshold, he steps in.

The silence of the flat screams as he walks in. It’s not the sort of silence that comes from an absence of Crowley in this room or even Crowley asleep somewhere. Aziraphale can always sense his presence, but the flat is cold and alone and _empty_.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls because he’s not sure what else to do as he moves through the flat. This isn’t the first time he’s been in this particular one so it isn’t hard to look around and spot any signs of trouble.

Memories of the first late night visit to this flat come to mind. Several champagne bottles spread around a newly miracled living room as music hums softly in the background. Crowley had fallen asleep on the couch and Aziraphale had miracled a blanket for him, one that he knows is tucked away in a closet somewhere in the flat because on cold nights Crowley still brings it out. So far, nothing looks out of place. But no signs of Crowley either. “Crowley, my dear, are you here?”

He moves through the flat, past familiar furniture and towards Crowley’s plant room, the place he most often is when Aziraphale comes to visit. There is no sound of the typical shouting, but it’s a better place to start than any. The farther he goes the more he starts to notice a distinct smell. His nose wrinkles and the pit of his stomach twists, unfamiliar with the strange stink that he seems to be walking towards.

Another door, also cracked open, stares Aziraphale down. That is where the odor seems to be coming from and while every fiber of Aziraphale tells him to move away, he forces himself forward.  
“Crowley?” He calls out again as he pushes the door open.

Immediately he’s hit with the smell tenfold. It’s powerful enough to send him staggering back, the hand that isn’t holding the book reaches up to cover his mouth and nose. It smells hideous, it smells acidic, it smells like pure _death_.

Aziraphale’s heart plummets into his stomach as he spots the obvious spot the smell is coming from. He takes a step back as if to get a closer look, and then falls back once again until his back is pressed up against a wall. He drops Agnes Nutter’s book to bring his other hand up to his face, pressing his palms against his mouth so hard he comes close to cutting the inside of his lips on his teeth.

Even if he couldn’t tell what the gooey, tar-like substance on the floor was, he could sense the holy water just by being near it.

“No… no, no, _no, no, nononono_ -” Aziraphale gasps, sliding down the wall until he hits the floor. All he can see is the puddle of water and former demon, it encapsulates his vision, searing itself into his mind. He can no longer hear himself chanting no, even as his voice grows louder and more shrill in his growing panic.

Aziraphale can’t feel much right now, a cold bucket of shock having been dunked over his head just as quickly as the panic began to get in.

_“Nononono – no, Crowley, no –”_

A suicide pill, he had called it back in the 1800s. A painful way to go that there was no coming back from. No discoperation, no new body, no more Crowley. A suicide pill that had looked better than whatever Hell could come up and, apparently, the End of the World.

Elsewhere in London, the bell above Aziraphale’s bookshop door rings out. The bookshop is completely empty, while the sign reads closed even the owner is nowhere to be seen. The only source of light in the room is a circle lit by candles, faintly glowing. Crowley almost walks right back out when he sees it.

It’s an instinctual response. Demons aren’t supposed to _want_ to go back to Heaven, not like they’d be welcome anyway, so any sort of portal to anywhere holy sends even the dumbest Demons running. Crowley is not dumb, especially for a Demon, but he is rather desperate, so he takes a deep breath, holy energy stinging his nose, and continues into the shop.

For a brief moment, his chest is seized by panic – the thought of being abandoned in the End of the World far worse than how it felt being the one who was going to run off. Was Heaven really that alluring? Or was Crowley and the promise of the universe just not enough to hold Aziraphale? These thoughts creep over his mind, covering it like a quickly growing moss. But then Crowley sees it’s not just the candles glowing, but the entire portal. So it’s been activated, but unused.

He lets out a heavy sigh of relief, entire posture slouching, before passing by quickly. Best not to look too hard at the holy light. He practically dives in the back room, as he does so he calls “Aziraphale!”

No answer. No answer when he calls throughout the bookstore, the back, and upstairs where the small living quarters are kept.

An empty bookshop with a portal to Heaven smack in the middle.

“For the love of – oh, forget it. Aziraphale, where the _hell_ are you?” Crowley mutters to himself. He pulls out his phone, looking at the dozens of unanswered calls he had put through in the last hour. If the world wasn’t ending he would be heavily embarrassed for several centuries by how desperate it looked.

He could be embarrassed for as long as he wanted once they got to space, all he had to do was fucking _find_ Aziraphale first. An Angel lost in the middle of London, might as well ask him to dig through a haystack while he’s at it.

And right at the End of the World. Just what he needed, a time limit.

“Couldn’t have just stayed put, could you?” He hurries outside to his Bentley, completely ready to drive down each street of London if it’s what it takes to find his angel.

It feels like another six thousand years have passed before Aziraphale can feel his body again, but it couldn’t have been. The entire world would have already ended, not just Aziraphale’s. But here it is, the world around him still intact. Still in Crowley’s apartment. Still facing the remains of his former best friend. Still solid and physically present in reality.

As the shock loosens it’s hold, Aziraphale gains feeling back. Such as the fact that he bruised the inside of his mouth by biting his cheek so hard it’s drawn blood. And that his hands had pressed so hard into his face that his nails had left indents on his cheeks. And even the tears that continue to pour down his face.

His throat aches, which is the only reason he had stopped chanting no to himself. His tongue feels swollen against the roof of his mouth and everything beneath his chest feels numb in a fuzzy sort of way, like his whole body has fallen asleep.

Thoughts piece themselves together slowly as if he’s trying to stitch a pattern for the first time. Only the end result still doesn’t make much sense, but the shock is wearing off just enough to let panic seep back in.

_Crowley wouldn’t - Crowley **wouldn’t**. Only for emergencies. It was a last resort. We’re not in last resort territory yet. Alpha Centauri. Another option, another option, so many more options. Hell, even just the moon. The moon. The moon, the apple tree, Eden, the wall of Eden, a snake, black wings and golden eyes- No, no, no. It can’t be Crowley – it has to be Crowley, who else would it be? He promised it was only for the last case scenario, the end all of all emergencies-_

Only. He hadn’t.

After caving and giving Crowley the holy water, Aziraphale had spent the next few days endlessly fretting, calling much more than he ever had before since the invention of phones, until Crowley had threatened to throw out his phone just for some peace and quiet. A week-long panic attack he would later come to think of it. But even in the midst of that, there was no promise made. Anything of the sort was all just implied, nothing verbal. Nothing truly binding.

But implied had always been binding enough between them. They had become adept at reading between the lines and following what they read. Spoken word was too dangerous most of the time, could never tell who was listening, so trust was formed that even if not said it was still expected. But this, _this_ was nowhere in the realm of expected.

Had the End of Times been the breaking point? Were between the lines were no longer enough?

Aziraphale can feel himself drag his hands past his face to grip at his hair. His head falls between his knees and even though he is no longer looking at the puddle on the floor, it’s all he can see. He makes no conscious effort to do any of this. He is hardly conscious at all.

As all Angels should, Aziraphale loves all of God’s creations, and She had many ones that are easy to love. So, as an immortal, it is impossible to go through existence without feeling the loss of them. The emptiness. There have been a handful of people, animals, even places, that have been lost to time that he has mourned.

But this?

This is a grief that Aziraphale is sure that not even Hell could imagine. A grief that Aziraphale would have believed only came with the feeling of losing one’s Angelic wings in a fall. A grief that he would never experience.

Now, though, in the midst of it, it is a grief that he would trade his wings for in a moment. If only to get the pain to subside for a second. If only to have Crowley back here, in his arms, one more time. But nothing happens. He hears nothing from above, feels nothing, and knows that it would be pointless to even attempt to ask.

Yet another six thousand years could have passed in the time it takes him to get up, but no, the world around him is still here. He makes sure not to look at the open door. Aziraphale has to leave this place, as much as it hurts him that puddle of goo is no longer Crowley and the smell of his best friend’s death is filling his head. Whatever grip on reality is quickly fading the longer he stays. He hardly remembers to pick up the book, but he isn’t sure why he feels the need to. Today is the End of the World and now that Aziraphale’s world has been taken, there’s not much point in saving the rest of it, now is there?

The world is ending soon and _Crowley has no idea where the fuck Aziraphale is._

“What, did he just decided to pop out on an afternoon stroll?” Crowley snarls under his breath and he jerks the steering wheel of his Bently, narrowly missing a pedestrian standing on the edge of a crosswalk. “Oh, last chance to really admire the last time London will ever see the sun, simply _must_ take advantage of that. Course, of course!”

This doesn't make Crowley feel any better, especially since he’s not angry at _Aziraphale_ and more _the whole situation of everything in this goddamn week_. But he can’t seem to stop himself. He hisses out curses and sharp barbs pointed at everyone and everything he can think of. If he doesn’t stop soon he’s sure that his tongue will revert back to how it was when he was actually a snake and the only way to tell if that’s happened is to listen for him drawing out his S’s. Another sharp turn and another shouted curse at the universe.

He’s nearly back to his flat with the route he’s taken. It’s a silly thought that Aziraphale would go there, he had made his stance on Crowley’s proposition perfectly clear, so it’s unlikely that he’d come to Crowley.

A quick driveby can’t hurt all the same. If Aziraphale isn’t in Heaven then he’s somewhere in London and Crowley will rewrite the laws of time itself to make sure he has enough of it to find Aziraphale in this city.

Luckily, no attempt at changing the cosmic writings of the universe is needed. Crowley slams on his breaks so hard the Bently shakes as if it’ll pop out of its tires, skidding to a stop about a block away from his flat. There, walking in the direction away from Crowley is Aziraphale. Back turned to him, but Crowley would recognize that blond hair and that now questionable taste in clothing anywhere.

The Bently shudders as it comes to a complete stop, but Crowley is already out of his car and jogging to catch up with Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls and frowns when there’s no obvious reaction. It’s not like there’s a lot of foot traffic near them, he should have no problem hearing Crowley. “Aziraphale!”

As Crowley gets closer it becomes more obvious that Aziraphale is tensing up with each call of his name. His arms are wound tightly around his torso and his hand is loosely hanging onto a book, one that looks like it will tumble from his grasp with just the slightest breeze. Okay, okay, this isn’t what Crowley needed from Aziraphale today, but he can work with it. Hey, at least he actually knows where he is, that saves a whole lot of time running around Earth unnecessarily.

“ _Aziraphale_!” Crowley all but shouts as he finally catches up. He reaches out and grabs Aziraphale’s shoulder, physically stopping him since nothing else seems to be getting through.  
And that seems to get through. If that’s what you want to call it.

Crowley isn’t sure what is going on with Aziraphale, but not even his best guess could prepare him from the reaction he gets. A full body shudder before a violent jerk away. Aziraphale almost stumbles to the ground but catches himself just in time to spin around to finally face Crowley.

Oh. Oh, this is not good at all.

If memory serves the last time Crowley saw Aziraphale anywhere near this upset was the height of the Bubonic Plague, but even that has little on this.

Aziraphale looks as if he’s seen a ghost. His face is drained of all color, except the red splotches around his eyes from obvious sobbing. His hair is all askew and he hugs himself tighter when he sees Crowley. Whatever has upset Aziraphale this much is serious, perhaps more serious than the End of Times itself.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks again, taking great care to soften his voice. One wrong move looks like it will send Aziraphale miracle himself halfway across the globe. He doesn’t dare reach out to touch him, not sure if any more physical contact will worsen the situation. “Aziraphale, what happened?”

They stand like that for a moment. And then another. And then a third.

“You…” Aziraphale whispers and his voice croaks so bad it makes Crowley’s ache as well. “You- you-... I don’t-... I can’t…”

“Shh, shh, Zira it’s- it is, hmm, it’s _going to be_ alright.”

Perhaps Aziraphale fell asleep against the wall, can shock do that? Can it drain someone so completely it knocks them out into a comforting dream? Or maybe this is a dream but he isn’t asleep. Is _that_ something shock can do? Aziraphale can’t seem to remember.

Crowley – the figment that looks like Crowley – looks far too calm for the situation at hand. The world is ending and he’s already dead. Shouldn’t he look more upset? Well, he looks upset, but it isn’t an _oh-I’m-dead-instead-of-discorporated_ kind of upset and more of a filled with concern type. His hands are slightly outstretched just close enough to not invade Aziraphale’s space but far enough away that they hover unsure in the air.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale whispers, but the name feels bitter on his tongue. Coppery and metallic.

“Yep, that’s right, angel.” Crowley nods and tries to smile, but Aziraphale knows - knew - him too well and sees right through it. Concern is seeping into a panic. “I don’t- I don’t know what’s gotten you so upset, but I need you to come with me. C’mon, we gotta go.”

It’s clear Crowley is trying to be gentle, but he can’t hide the rush in his voice. He says “we gotta go” when he means “we should’ve been the hell out of here twenty minutes ago _come on_ ”.

“Why?”

Crowley leans back in surprise, arms dropping to his sides. “Be… Because it’s Armageddon? End of days and all that? Aziraphale?”

“So?”

It’s clear that Crowley isn’t sure how to handle this and part of Aziraphale does feel bad for leaving him so wrong-footed. It must be hard enough to dead already, Aziraphale doesn’t need to be making it any worse. Crowley looks around them for a minute, as if checking to see if anyone is going to spring out and shout _boo!_ “I don’t, pff,” Crowley blows out a puff of air between his teeth and reaches up to drag his hand through his hair,” angel, what _happened_?”

Aziraphale can’t help but let out a laugh at that. Well, it’s more of a strangled, chocked off version of a laugh, but it’s the best he’s got in him. After the first one happens the rest just start bubbling up until he’s leaned over slightly, clutching his stomach, body raked with shakes. “ _What happened?_ As if you don’t know Crowley. I killed you!”

Silence from Crowley’s end as Aziraphale continues to laugh.

“Okay.” Crowley huffs, and oh Aziraphale is so glad this figment can do that. It was always cute, that frustrated huff Crowley would do, especially since he only ever seemed to do it around Aziraphale. “Okay, clearly, something, something bad, very very bad has happened in the short time since you opened that Heaven portal. And we can deal with that later, I think, but Zira, c’mon I need you to get in the car.”

Aziraphale can’t mark the exact moment when his laughs, hysterical now, dissolve into sobs. Whole body-wracking sobs.

“I- I _killed_ you, Crowley.” Aziraphale continues between his sobs, finally able to look back up at the figment. “‘S all my fault. Wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t in Soho. Should’ve been up in space, then you would’ve stayed.”

What. The _fuck_. Is happening.

Aziraphale clearly isn’t completely back into reality yet. If the Crowley he runs into on the street isn’t enough, then the fact that one minute he’s standing on the sidewalk crying his eyes out and the next he’s sitting in Crowley’s old Bently without knowing how he got there is quite a big hint.

This must be a dream then. The Bently isn’t something he can imagine while awake and still feel the way it rumbles as it goes, feel the bumps on the road as Crowley speeds along.  
He digs his fingernails into the palm of his hands and flinches in surprise when he finds it hurts.

Not a dream?

“...How did I get here?” Aziraphale whispers, staring down at his palm.

The car around them speeds up and Crowley hums, matching the purr of the car. “Well you stood on a sidewalk crying and saying complete nonsense so I… let’s go with helped, helped you into my car. Sorry, angel, as much as I understand a good cry session to let all that pent up stuff out, you picked a pretty shitty time to do it.”

The casual tone to his voice is horribly forced, causing Aziraphale to look up. It is indeed still Crowley next to him, but his body is far too tense to be from Aziraphale’s imagination. He always preferred Crowley at his most relaxed, but this one is trying to replicate that look. The tilt of his spine against the seat is much too rigid and his hands grip the steering wheel much too tight. His lips are mashed together into an attempted neutral expression that if anything makes him looked even more anxious.

“No, I mean… This isn’t possible.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I killed you.”

“Hmm, you keep saying that, but I seem to recall it’s been several hours since we’ve seen each other. If you did have time to kill me then I’m quite impressed that I hadn’t noticed.”

“No. No, not like _that_.” Aziraphale shakes his head because real, imaginary, dream, Crowley has to understand. Understand it as Aziraphale understands it. “The holy water. _I_ gave you the holy water. Therefore _I_ killed you. And- and I told you it was over. _We_ were over. What other choice did I give you but holy water?”

Crowley slams on the breaks so hard it’s a miracle itself that they don’t go flying through the windshield. (It’s very unclear if the miracle belongs to either of them or just one from everyday life). Instead of stopping in the middle of traffic, like Aziraphale’s heart tells them they are as it jumps into his throat, Crowley quickly miracles their way into a parking space next to a bunch of shops.

“Holy water?” Crowley whispers, his grip on the wheel somehow tightening. Any more so and it’ll snap. He looks up at Aziraphale, horror plain on his face even with his sunglasses on. “Aziraphale, no, no, no-”

Ah, there it is. The understanding. The same understanding that Aziraphale had to come to. Was the problem just that Crowley didn’t realize he’s dead? Is a reminder always needed in situations like this? Ghosts aren’t exactly his department up in Heaven. Can celestial beings even have ghosts? The rules about all this sort of thing are quite unclear, which is very frustrating considering how much Heaven loves documentation.

Crowley turns his whole body in the seat and pulls off his glasses, setting them into his lap. Now Aziraphale can fully see his wide, golden eyes, but can’t stand to look at them for more than a moment. He squeezes his own eyes shut, but then he can only see the flat, what is left of his best friend.

“ _Aziraphale_.” Crowley whispers and Aziraphale can feel hands cupping his face. His eyes blink open, wide and taken aback, to see Crowley staring at him. His touch is more gentle than it has any right to be, more than any accidental brush of the hands between them has ever been. “Angel, that wasn’t me. I, I _wouldn’t_ -. I did use the holy water, but not on myself.”

“ _What?_ ”

Crowley’s thumb brushes back and forth against Aziraphale’s cheekbone, lighter than air. “Hell figured out losing the Antichrist was my fault, so they sent two demons after me. Drag me back to hell ‘n all. Didn’t seem like a great option so I thought now's a good a time as any to break out the holy water.”

“You- But I- You-” Aziraphale sputters, mind blank with static as he tried to wrap his head around this brand new reality.

“Doused one with holy water and trapped the other in my answering machine, yeah.” Crowley shrugs in what is obviously meant to be an off-handed gesture, but the action is ruined by the look on his face. Without his regular sunglasses, there is nothing to hide the absolute burning - _something_ \- in his eyes.

“You… You’re here.” Aziraphale lets out a long breath and feels himself go boneless - not literally, he hasn’t lost that much control over his physical form - and collapses forward into Crowley.

The divider between their seats makes the new position slightly uncomfortable, but Aziraphale hardly notices it as he presses his face into Crowley’s neck. His hands grip the back of Crowley’s jacket, wrinkling it beyond anything but divine repair, and presses them together as much as physically possible. Crowley is real and solid and here and Aziraphale feels like he can never let go again. Crowley himself tenses up at this new development of closeness but quickly shakes it off to wrap his arms around Aziraphale as well, cradling against him. Aziraphale can feel Crowley shiver every time he lets out a breath against his neck.

“You’re here.” Aziraphale whispers once more, pressing his face so hard into Crowley he can see stars behind his eyelids.

“Yes, yes, I’m here, angel,” Crowley whispers back, tilting his head down so it presses into Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m so- I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-. I thought you wouldn’t come to me, so I headed to the bookshop. If I, if I knew I wouldn’t have just…”

There they sit, wrapped in each other's arms at the end of the world ticks ever closer. Outside the world continues as normal, unaware of its own fate. Inside everything has ground to a screeching halt. Nothing exists outside of this moment. Everything building up for the past day releases in their hold.

It only lasts a minute but feels like an eternity.

“You trapped a demon in your answering machine?” Aziraphale whispers, knowing that one of them will have to shatter this moment eventually. And, well, that seemed like the best ice breaker on hand.

Crowley laughs, lighter than he has in days. “Uh, yeah, I did. Well, I mean, not after threatening him with fake holy water?”

“How can you fake holy water?” Aziraphale’s words are slightly muffled by his position, but he isn’t in any rush to move.

“Well,” Crowley drags out the word in a typical Crowley fashion and it makes Aziraphale’s heart squeeze. “You melt one with the stuff and then point a spray bottle at another they’ll come up with their own conclusions. Called my bluff, though. Still fell for the answering machine trick.”

“Oldest trick in the book.” And for the first time in many hours, Aziraphale smiles.

“Pretty sure it’s not, angel.”

“I suppose you would know.”

Crowley laughs once more and the last of the fuzziness that had encompassed Aziraphale dissipates. He clenches his hands on Crowley’s jacket once more, just one more reassurance, before slowly pulling back. Immediately he notices the missing warmth of Crowley’s body and sees where he had gotten Crowley’s shirt wet. Crowley still isn’t wearing his glasses, but he looks closer to actual relaxed instead of a falsehood put on for Aziraphale’s benefit.

As Crowley had done to him, Aziraphale brings his hands up to cup Crowley’s face. Almost immediately red creeps up Crowley’s neck at the contact and his eyes widen, gaze flittering back and forth as if they were about to be caught by someone. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come out.

Aziraphale smiles, truly smiles as a heavy weight is lifted off his chest, and briefly considers pushing himself forward into Crowley once more. A kiss would be much more effective at saying what’s needed to say than any words. But he decides against it.

If they can survive the apocalypse, he decides.

“Well. Now that that’s been cleared up, we really should be getting going.” Aziraphale pulls his hands back and rubs them together, doing his best to memorize the feeling of the touch. “Not much time to get to Tadfield.”

“Tadfield?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow. He reaches down into his lap to pick up his sunglasses and slip them back on. Aziraphale can practically see the question Alpha Centauri? on his lips.

Aziraphale nods and settles back into his seat. “Yes, Tadfield. We should have just enough time to stop the end of the world.”

And Crowley presses down on the gas.

How much time should be allocated to let someone decompress from an Almost-Apocalypse? If you were using as it an excuse to get out of work, how many days would your boss allow you before you were fired? Or how many times could you use it as a reason that you couldn’t go out with friends? _Sorry, I’d love to, but I’ve just been mentally sucker-punched by the realization that everything almost Ended so I don’t think I can come out for drinks tonight, maybe next weekend?_

Crowley ponders this as he pours two mugs of tea. One is in a white cup with a small pair of angel wings as a handle. The second is an exact copy only painted black. The second one is new, presented to him just a week ago. He had accepted it with a huff of indignation, but it makes his chest feel all warm whenever he pulls it out of the cupboard.

The tea is still piping hot and would most likely burn any human who tried to pick them up, but instead, it’s a soothing feeling in Crowley’s hands. Must be a side effect of Hell’s impossible temperatures.  
Currently, he is in Aziraphale’s bookshop. It has been a month since the world almost ended, they narrowly avoided death from Heaven and Hell, and Crowley had started spending almost every day with Aziraphale. The bookshop is where he spends most of his time now. Sometimes he sleeps over but usually, he does go back to his flat by the end of the day, mostly just to make sure his plants haven’t been slacking off in his absence.

When he does sleep over he spent the first week sleeping on the couch until one night Aziraphale had mentioned how dreadfully uncomfortable it must be and well, one thing led to another and now Crowley is quite well acquainted with Aziraphale’s bed.

Which is where he currently is heading.

It is two in the morning and ten minutes earlier he had been awoken from his sleep by a clingy Angel. This isn’t the first night he has been woken up like this and gone to make a midnight cuppa, and it most likely won’t be the last. Both of them are still decompressing in their own ways.

Crowley has been watching his back with a bit more paranoia than he ever had, even when he was lying to Hell through paperwork. Aziraphale has been getting nightmares.

“How ironic.” Aziraphale muses as Crowley walks back into the bedroom and hands him his cup of tea. He is sat up against the headboard and still buried beneath the hefty stack of blankets that are piled on the bed every night (those had been added for Crowley’s benefit as he liked to sleep much too warm for any other living being on the planet, but on nights like these they are a comfort to Aziraphale as well). “Between the two of us, I could have guessed you would be the one who would have issues like this with sleep.”

“I did always like doing it more.” Crowley agrees, crawling into his side of the bed - when did he start referring to it as his? When had it transformed from completely Aziraphale’s bed into two halves shared by them? “Good way to past the boring decades.”

“I still don’t see the appeal,” Aziraphale mutters into his teacup before taking a sip.

“I never said you have to sleep with me every night just because I prefer it.” Crowley points out, soaking up the tea’s warmth. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that he actually drinks any of it instead of just letting it heat him up. “I wouldn’t mind if you spent your nights doing whatever it is you usually do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to just leave you here to sleep alone. What kind of manners would those be?” Aziraphale huffs but looks off to the side as he says it.

Crowley sets the teacup on the bedside drawer next to him before turning onto his side to completely face Aziraphale, a big toothy grin on his face. “Oh? Manners, hm? Is that the only reason you’ve taken to sharing a bed with me? I hadn’t realized that twenty-first-century etiquette has evolved in such a way.”

Aziraphale coughs and it’s only because Crowley has known him so long that he can tell he’s attempting to stifle a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“ _Nah_ , I’m not quite sure that I do.” Crowley scoots closer under the blankets, just inches away from Aziraphale when he props himself up on his elbow and rests his chin on his palm. “Care to explain, angel, where in the world you acquired this new manner rule?”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch and he takes another drink.

“ _Ooooor_ ,” Crowley drags the word out, “perhaps it’s not about manners at all. Is that it? Perhapssss it’s about… this!”

And with that Crowley pushes himself forward and latches onto Aziraphale where he can reach. His legs intertwine with Aziraphale's and his arms wrap around his middle, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s stomach.

It is purely out of surprise that Aziraphale lets out a loud giggle. Crowley peeks up to watch Aziraphale try to move the teacup away from them, tea sloshing at the edge just threatening to spill Crowley knows it won’t. “ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale’s scold is ruined by his following giggles. “Be _careful_ \- what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, don’t act like this isn’t why you let me share a bed with you, angel.” Crowley grins up at him before pressing his face back into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“I would prefer you didn’t do it while I am holding hot tea.”

“Hm, well, that’s the risk you take. Sharing the bed with a snake, we’re known to cling.”

“Oh, are you?” Aziraphale’s voice is terribly deadpanned, but Crowley knows he’s still smiling. Good, as long as Aziraphale is smiling then tonight has been a success.

Crowley would cuddle with him forever as long as it made him forget about the nightmares.

Nightmares that are very well warranted considering the week they had a month ago. Aziraphale hasn’t told Crowley everything that happens in them, just a few things that Crowley could have easily guessed on his own. The actual end of the world, the war between Heaven and Hell coming to fruition, Crowley actually dead. Normal trying to cope with the Nearly-Apocalypse nightmares.

So this is what Crowley does on nights like these. Wakes up, gets Aziraphale tea, cuddle him, and does whatever he can to make the Angel smile. It doesn’t always work. But tonight it has. Neither of them will go back to sleep, they both know that.

But right now that is okay. They are okay.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
